Six Feet Under Chapter 10: The Machine, a don't starve fanfic

Chapter 10, everybody! In which Wilson does the thing he does in the promotional video and thus kicks off the game….The song he's listening to is "Fortunate Son" by Creedence Clearwater Revival—I think I was listening to it when I was writing this, so I just wrote it in. :) Willow's suggestion of the easy-listening muzak, meanwhile, comes from a Calvin and Hobbes strip where Calvin figures that's the best way to drive his parents nuts. Oh dear….

Willow made her way up the stairs as John Fogherty started singing.

"Some folks are born, made to raise the flag—ooh, the red, white and blue!"

She braced herself before opening the door and subjecting herself to the full blast of the speaker hooked up to the player.

"What are you doing?" Willow hollered.

"Isn't it great?" Wilson asked, shoving his swivel chair along with his foot to quickly traverse the attic. "I can't believe I didn't think of this earlier!"

Willow sighed, slammed the door, and crossed over to the record player.

"It ain't me," Fogherty sang. "It ain't me, I ain't no senator's son. It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no fortunate—"

She lifted the needle, cutting the house sharply into blessed silence.

"Do you mind?" Wilson asked, irritated.

"I do," Willow returned. "Subtle, remember?"

"Think about it—phantom music with no source. That should put them on edge, wouldn't you think?"

"I would, but that guy is older than you are—he probably likes Creedence!"

Wilson scowled. "What do you mean, older than I am?"

"What, are you sensitive about your age now?"

Wilson's scowl deepened as he went back to work.

"Besides, if you really want to unnerve them, you don't blare the music," Willow continued, musing. "You play easy-listening muzak and then play it real soft."

"Hmph."

"Are you sulking now?" she asked him.

"Maybe."

"Right," she noised as he sat back to examine his work. "So what is this thing?"

"It's…not finished yet."

"You've been saying that for a week now."

"And I'll change my tune once it's finished."

She sighed as he went back to work.

"So how is your new friend?" Wilson asked, sounding like he was trying for off-handed but failing.

"She's tried talking to her parents, but they don't believe her."

"I'm sure."

"You know, maybe this is your fault." When he looked at her in surprise, she continued. "Maybe you don't believe hard enough."

"Now you're being ridiculous," Wilson muttered, going back to work.

"At least I'm trying."

"And I'm sitting up here twiddling my thumbs, is that it?"

"You're becoming a crotchety irritant."

That made Wilson seize up for some reason—like there was an itch he was trying very hard not to scratch.

And then he sagged and rubbed his face.

"I'm…sorry," he said finally. "It's just…I've been a little…stressed."

She touched his shoulder—wow, he was tense. "So have I," she said. "You don't see me locking myself away though, do you?"

"I haven't been locking myself away," he replied, back to his usual mildly-irritated self. "I've been working."

"On the mystery thing that you won't say what it is. It's not a bomb, is it?"

"Ha ha, no," he said, picking up a few nearby gears. "I'll be done with it by tonight—you'll see what it is then."

"Hmm," she noised, sitting down next to him. "Can I help?"

He ran his fingers through his hair again. "I suppose so."

Yes! Personal victory!

Even better, this would put a damper on any more CCR riffs.

"Well….What is it?"

"It's…a…thing."

"You don't know, do you?"

Wilson scratched behind his ear as they examined the device he had crafted. It stretched from floor to ceiling against a wall, and bore a passing resemblance to a face. A lever stuck out next to the mouth.

"Was this in the handbook?" Willow asked.

"That ridiculous thing? No," he said, scratching next to his nose now—oh please don't start showing there. "I've given up on that."

"Then—"

Willow was cut off by the radio suddenly crackling and cackling to life.

"That guy again?" Willow asked, looking at the offending device.

"Oh that's rich," the radio said. "Insult the guy who's helping you, why don't you?"

Willow blinked, then looked to Wilson. "Do what?"

"Well," Wilson noised, scratching at his arm out of nervous habit now—being with her had helped somewhat, but her scrutiny now might as well have him breaking out in nervous hives. "I…well…ah, you did say that you liked the idea of hiring a professional…."

She was glaring now.

The radio laughed again. "This sounds like it's going well. Do me a favor: clear up your little lover's spat before you come see me. The lever activates the door—ta ta!"

And then the radio went dead.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Willow asked.

Wilson gestured helplessly, trying very hard to ignore that infernal itch again. "I…I don't know, honestly—I think…I think I wasn't thinking, honestly—I want…." He wasn't about to say that. "I want our house back. Without the annoying roommates."

She was still glaring.

"I should have told you," he muttered, scratching at his arm again.

"You should have," she agreed.

"I…I'll just take this down then."

"Don't," she said, catching his wrist. "I…guess we can get this guy to help—I don't have any love for Mr. and Mrs. Yutz. But Wendy's allowed to visit."

"I can live with that," Wilson said, feeling relief flood him, driving that itch away.

"All right then—hold on!"

"Now what?" Wilson asked, pausing in his reach for the lever.

"We have to do this right," Willow said, taking a few steps back and then pointing dramatically, leaning back with her nose in the air. "Wilson—'Pull the lever!'"

Wilson smirked, recognizing the joke from the inane movie they had watched one night.

He seized the lever and yanked down.

Gears ground and groaned….

And then suddenly the "mouth" of the machine slammed open, spitting out shadows that seized them and dragged them in—

"Wrong lever!" Willow had the faculty to say as they scrabbled at the floor—

And then they were falling into darkness—

And then nothing.